Pistol Wrists – By: D.e.e.L (Short Story – Notice: Contains Disclaimer)

Pistol Wrists

By: D.e.e.L

Copyright 2012

Disclaimer: This story involves intense situations and is not recommended for everyone. Please be aware of this before reading and proceed at your own will. This story is completely fictional. Do not attempt anything within the context of this story. Discretion is advised.

These people on television have no idea what they are even talking about. They are all sad; the people are. I do not view them as being sad from emotions and stress that they portray themselves to be. I look into their mendacious eyes upon my television’s screen and I visualize them as being sad from not understanding the world around them. Nobody upon this earth understands “It” more than I do. “It” is what we all dwell within. This universe of a world is nothing but a simple “It”, in which nobody but I truly understands.

This blade seemed much sharper when I was a child, but now, now it’s just some worthless piece of metal and fake looking wood that I will use to finally be free from everyone. Not a soul upon this earth truly understands me. I have to make some sort of statement in order to be noticed; otherwise I will be just like every other drone that walks through each day living in some condensed form of life that they assume to be the real thing. Someone might have money, family, love, their dream home, and so much more, but do they have what truly matters? Do they have “It”? I doubt very many souls could relate to what is deep within me; music has tried to do this for years, the older songs were much closer than the spit being spat within the time that ticks now. A singer might proclaim that they too understand the pain that I feel each day I walk upon the unknown sands of this earth. Though they have no idea, they don’t understand, they only repeat what has already been said, hoping to spark pain into someone that doesn’t need anymore; they do this just to steal money from the thieves.

Years from now when I reach my later teens, I will have to get a job and conform just as everyone else endlessly is forced to do. I could just walk through the door of generic as those have done all throughout time, or I could change reality within this moment.

With the dull worthless knife I begin to dig deep into my quivering wrist, stopping now would be a failure, giving up would become me. The pain makes my eyes roll over back into my head, my breathing turns to gasping. The wrist right below my left hand is now slit open straight across; quickly I wrap towels around my self-infliction and pick “It” up from my desk.

I hold “It” in my right hand and let the towels fall to the floor. The wound of my left wrist now once again exposed to the terrifying environment of a teenager’s bedroom. I place “It” into the wound and position “It” in the way I have envisioned in my mind a thousand times before. With needle and cheap green thread I sew up the wound as the blood surrounds my fingers, making the process even more difficult. I wrap fresh towels around my wrist once more; secure “It” tightly by wrapping much of my lower left arm with tape. I look at the clock to notice how long the first wrist took, only one hour; only one hour of my life has meant something now.

The process seems easier now; the pain is of a familiar pairing to my mind engaged. I make sure to leave the loading mechanism exposed just enough. With my right wrist now matching my left, I let the sight of so much of my blood finally consume my mind, I pass out onto my bed, my mind full of excitement.

I awaken and remove the towels from my once untouched wrists; they are badly beaten by my teenage dreams, a dark purple surrounds my homemade manifestations. All I must do is just clench my fists tightly to see if my idea works, but I cannot test quite yet, I need more time to heal.

I walk out of my cubicle sized room and stride towards the kitchen. She won’t be back from work until later, Saturdays she stays longer, as to make as many tips as possible. From under the sink I pull out a half full bottle of vodka. The pain will be vibrant; my mind must be numbed quickly before. I take one shot of the throat scorching liquid before placing each arm over the sink and dumping the bottles contents upon my life-saving wounds. I take another shot and let the liquid linger on my wrists. I turn the television on to watch everyone that isn’t me; I watch all those that do not understand “It”.

The project put to motion within this morning will still be much of a sight once she comes home in a few hours. I grab a hooded sweatshirt and slide the sleeves down my arms slowly as to not surrender myself to even more pain. I have a few hours before she comes home. I must do something to get my mind off of this pain.

Doors create an eerie sound when closing slowly. I close it slowly as I know my mother instructed the woman across the hall to watch out for me, keep me safe. I push the lobby button and stand next to an old woman that looks as if lost. She is carrying an old book that is probably newer than she is, I don’t say a word to her.

Battered shoes cover my feet as I step out of the elevator and give a pitiful wave to the lost old woman. The doorman doesn’t exist, so I push the weak door open myself and blink twice before stepping out into the world being brought to darkness.

My pockets carry very little money, but enough for a burger and soda at the convenience store just a couple blocks away. The trip, the treasures, will both provide my mind with some sort of escape from my self-induced pain. As I walk I find almost a dollar in change about the filth covered streets. I flick a nickel at a man lying on the ground right outside the liquor store a few minutes’ walk from the convenience store.

The total comes to me having a dollar left over, so I place a pack of gum onto the counter as well. Once I finish paying for my simple treasures I make for the door, I push the door open and notice three men getting out of a car right outside. I yell to the cashier and he looks out the window close to him to see the men placing masks over their faces and holding their guns in the air. The cashier motions for me to hide behind one of the aisles as he pulls a shotgun from behind the counter. The first man bursts through the door and without emotion fires a shot into the cashier’s life. The first man grabs the register and slams it to the floor as the other two men make their way for the back room, most likely looking for a safe. I creep around the aisles trying not to make a sound, trying not to die. A cracking noise makes the first man react as if I have thrown a grenade at him. Without warning he fires his gun at my direction without even seeing me. “It” isn’t ready yet, but I have no choice. I know that I only have one chance to face the first man; he reacts without any thought to this world vacant of his mind. As I stand my legs shake with what I tell myself is courage. I shout out words of hate and put my fists up into the air and clench them as tight as I can. The motion triggers “It” and a shot from each of my wrists is fired into his chest. He falls to the ground as a bullet from his pistol hits the ceiling. The noise is heard by the other two men, each come out to meet their fate. I fire one more shot to take out the security camera before grabbing their pistols for ammo and busting out the door and running as fast as my battered shoes will take me.

My items are left on the floor of the store, the receipt along with them. I used petty cash and there is no way for them to find me, I hope. Panic races through me as I endlessly run for somewhere, anywhere, just not here. I don’t think human beings are meant to run this fast; I feel as if light. Intense, severe, merciless, relentless pain devours my mind as the unhealed wounds I created are proving their power upon me. I slam my back against a wall once flinging my body into a side alley. Heart pounding, chest protruding, eyes wanting nothing more than to blink to another reality, I could have saved him, I could have at least tried. Is my life any more important than his? What makes one person better than another? Such a concept sadly exists within most people, as they put down others they see themselves superior to. Pathetic is the world we live in, pathetic are the ones that do not understand “It”.

She spots me and decides to walk over and take a chance. I am not even of age, and lack any sort of means to obtain money, robbing from my Mother’s purse was a past fool that no longer exists. I stand still as I am told of wondrous things she can do to me, things I have not yet had the mind to fathom, until now. Her clothes attract more attention than just mine, a man in a leather jacket and worn out jeans comes walking over along with a taller, dumber looking version of him by his side. They tell her to skip out on the kid and spend some time with some real men. The taller man pushes her against the wall as the man in the leather jacket pushes me to the filth covered ground. This situation will not end well, I will feel more pain, and I can’t be seen by anyone. She is better off without this life of self-degradation, these men are better off without this world.

Nobody saw me, nobody will ever find out what I have done. Black and blue mixes with dark purple and drips of red as my wrists are consumed by even more torment. “It” isn’t turning out as I had planned. I didn’t know how truly evil the world around me is. With every turn I make, I bare the chance of slamming myself into a situation with someone that just has no regard for the fact that “It” exists. Running as if light, I stream by people I will never know as if I am invisible to their eyes; as they take a quick glance at the boy running down the street with drops of red falling from his sleeves, my life means nothing to those that don’t know my name.

Nowhere to go, she will be home soon. If I show up she will see me like this, a beast created within such little time, this world changes us all so easily. One experience, a single person, can change your outlook on everything. Within one simple day I have completely altered my life; what have I done? Where do I go now?

Bandages I pull up my sleeve before walking out, there is no alarm sounding as I exit the store that is used to feed a family of four from its deprived profits.

I wrap the bandages tight around my wrists, the red bleeds through instantly. Stained sleeves are used to act as if attempting not to hide “It” at all.

Cars don’t stop for pedestrians around here. They don’t know me; why should they care? My mind tilts from positive to reflective upon my immortal decision I now must bare within me.

Strolling is what I call that which I am doing now, simply walking without direction or meaning, pacing myself as to not reach nowhere too fast. The slow pace I walk is quickened as police cars race by me. I follow as if supposed to, as if my duty now. The sirens are eventually my only method to finding my direction, the cars themselves far from the reach of my sight. Ending my sprint I stare up at a building consumed by flames.

All sorts of authorities know better than to approach such a devastating circumstance, I’m too worthless to know better; I begin to sprint. Voices that are paid to care begin to shout for me to stop, to halt my chance at becoming someone, if only for just a moment. The noise is but a soundless hindrance to my stride as I barrel through a door missing any meaning. Smoke instantly consumes my lungs, I choke with every second. Screams are haunting me from every direction of the six storied building. Start from the top and work my way down, those at the top have the least chance of escaping. The stairs are falling to pieces, the door handle to the sixth floor is much too hot, and the door consumed in flames, my right fist clenches tight and the door is sprung open as the handle becomes mangled in an instant. The bandage falls from my arm and burns away into the realm of the non-existent. I tear the bandages from my left and kick open the first door to find the lives inside already beyond this world. I listen for screaming as the fire grabs my flesh. I hear something, someone, somewhere, somewhere close. “It” pains my left wrist within a single moment, though pain no longer a factor needing to exist within my mind. The door floats open and a mother is holding her child. She sees me and reacts in horror to my dwindling appearance, but she can see it in my fading eyes that I hold some sort of beating organ within my chest. Her only words are to save the child wrapped in a fire-blanket. Within the tick of the clock of her handing the child to my arms I witness the light disappear from her eyes. I hold the child tightly in my arms and run as fast as I can back into the hall, to the door with the mangled handle, to the stairs reaching their final need for being. I leap the steps instead of sparing time to step to each one, only leaping to points that are without severity of damage, or at least look better than my other options. As I reach the fourth floor I hear more screams for a hero, for a chance, for anything. This child is coughing; my lungs are nothing but black smoke that will soon turn my blood to ashes. I continue to leap, hoping the fire will burn my ears before anything else. My vision is blurring, the stairs in front of me look as if a hole leading to even more flames within another realm more evil than this one. I leap towards the platform behind the eternal life source and slam my right shoulder hard into the wall; then I keep running. By the second floor, I am at a loss for an exit, as the floor above has crumbled into my path. I hold the child in my left arm and clench my right fist at the wall, I then switch arms and cradle the child as gentle as I dream of being loved as I deplete all of “It” from my left wrist into the wall. I kick at the hole made by “It” and an exit creates within my foreseen design. The building is cracking, failing, worthless, as I jump to the ground and land completely to my own sacrifice to save the child. Authorities come running up to me and first grab the child from my arms. Someone dressed in conformity grabs me and lifts me up; my ankles buckle and send my knees crashing into the ground. They cannot see “It”. They may not witness my immortality, for such lives could never understand “Me”.

I stand and shove people away from me as the building creates endless sounds of destruction behind me. The choice I had made at the beginning of this day has taught me that pain does not truly exist, that it is something only within our minds, a simple figment to tell us what not to feel anymore, how to become like everyone else.

All pain does not exist within me as I run, as I sprint, as I become light once more.

I finally fall to the earth once within the darkness unseen by the streets and the people that are invisible to everyone but me. The back of my head feels nothing as I fall to the floor and rest harshly against the wall in an unwilling haste.

Suddenly a shadow of a heart from within one of the corners I cannot see within my reckoning darkness, projects a faint sound. Words speak to my mind asking for change, for a bit of luck. I deliver him my voice and tell the old sounding man to take seat next to me. I ask of his world, of how he came to exist as such. I sit and listen to someone other than me, someone that truly understands “It” better than I ever will.


  1. Wow! This is very deep. I dont know if it’s good that I understood this or not? I couldn’t stop reading this even thou I wanted to. I applaud Dan for writing this. The feelings while writing this must have been intense for the words cut deep in me.


  2. “Voices that are paid to care…” Lines that say so much with very few words. Clever, clever work and again somewhat resonant of James Joyce in the ‘stream of consciousness’ stylistic, but with the added edgy power of William Burrows. Great work.


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